A Study of 221B
by Mycroft-mione
Summary: A set of drabbles about the present and the past, mixed together to tell Sherlock's story. What made Sherlock the way he is? How do the detective and the doctor really feel about each other?
1. Understood

**A/N: Unfortunately, I don't own Sherlock...or BBC...or anything...EXCEPT for my storyline. That part is all me!**

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They return from Scotland Yard. Sherlock shrugs off his long coat and scarf unconsciously, his mind already poised to solve this next problem. He can hear John speaking in the background, but it is just white noise, just noise that he quickly tunes out so that he may fully concentrate. And concentrate he does. He is so busy concentrating that he doesn't notice John's approach until John is immediately in front of him, grabbing his hands clasped in a thinking pose and pulling them down in one swift motion. Their eyes lock for a second, and then they evade each other's glances as John scolds. Sherlock shivers, but a strange feeling ripples across his skin. It is filled with warmth.

Hypothesis: John has caused this feeling. Hmmm…needs more data.

John is saying something about how he, Sherlock, finds too much pleasure in these murders. If it were anyone else Sherlock would yell at them, but no…John is different. With John, he knows no one will call him a freak or laugh at him. And even though John objects to his enjoyment of (obsession with?) murders, he knows John won't push the subject. He understands.

And for that, John has Sherlock's eternal gratitude.


	2. Tormented

"Daddy!" cries the little boy. He is very young, probably no more than three, but he wears an expression much too serious and tormented for his age. His lip quivers, but he doesn't cry. He must be holding it back, struggling to seem older. Or wanting to look tough. No matter what it is, Martha feels bad for the toddler, as she watches from her lifeguard post only a few yards away. She sees an older boy hurry over to his brother, trying to calm him down. Martha guiltily overhears every word.

"C'mon, 'lock," he whispers. "Don't be a baby."

The little one says something about a sand castle, then immediately hushes when a grown man dressed impeccably in a suit and tie—_his father?_—approaches.

"I told you _specifically_ not to embarrass me, Sherlock," he barks, after taking one look at the sand castle his younger son has begun to build.

"And _you_, Mycroft," he says angrily. "What is wrong with you? Can't you control your brother?! The Swedish Minister just walked away from a deal after taking one look at him!"

"I'm sorry, father," the older boy replies. His eyes are lowered as he cowers. "You see, he wanted to build a castle, a lot," he pleads. "But then, he was scared of the tide. I tried—I tried to stop, but…I couldn't. Please forgive me!"

Martha watches, horrified, as the father keeps yelling, until the whole beach has stopped what they are doing to listen. He realizes this, and storms off, knowing his sons will follow. Martha waits until they are out of sight to let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. Suddenly, someone waves a hand in her face.

"Mattie? Martha Hudson, is that you?" a high voice chirps. "I haven't seen you since our school days!"

"Oh, hi, Betty," Martha says, smiling. "Listen, can you cover me for a sec'? Thanks."

She leaves without waiting for a reply and walks along the sand, thinking.

_Sherlock and Mycroft,_ she murmurs. _Poor kids. Hmm…_


	3. Banned

John pushes the spoon around the mug. He takes a secret pleasure in getting into a real rhythm, stirring and stirring until he remembers himself and starts to drink, self-consciously. But this time, he keeps going, and tries to keep the metal spoon from hitting the sides of the mug with an irritating "clank," which it always did. Finally John holds the mug to his lips, and takes his first sip of tea—but nearly spits it out.

"Ugh," he grumbles. "No milk." He knows before he checks that the fridge will be empty of food and full of experiments, but he looks anyway before groaning in disgust.

"Sherlock! What have I said about body parts in the kitchen?!" he calls into the sitting room.

"What have _I_ told _you_ about my experiment specifications? Those fingers have to be kept at exactly 6°! Besides, where would you prefer me to put them? In your room? ...Actually, come to think of it, your closet _is_ fairly empty…"

"Forget it," is John's rapid reply. He definitely doesn't want Sherlock getting ideas. Then he glances at his watch and groans again.

"Dammit, I have to go to the hospital. Suppose it's too much to expect for you to get milk at Tesco in the next eight hours?"

John says this last sentence boredly, knowing there is virtually no chance of it happening. He grabs his mobile, and without waiting for an answer, closes the door and leaves for work.

It is 7:30 in the evening when John returns from Bart's. He puts down his things, yawns, and, on a whim, walks over to the fridge, looking for milk. His jaw drops. The entire refrigerator is filled with gallon jugs of milk. On one of the front cartons he finds a note:

_John—_

_I went to Tesco's, but the organization is appalling. It took me an hour to find the milk, and then the manager—well, the point is, he banned me from the store. But I got the milk. You're welcome._

_—Sherlock_

_p.s. All I asked him for was eyeballs! How is that too much to ask?_


	4. Reminded

"Have you got your trunk?" the housekeeper asked him, not looking at his face, but busily dusting fine china plates in the entry hall with a fluffy feather duster.

"Yes, ma'am," Sherlock replied.

"Your school books?" she inquired.

"Yes."

"Your scarf? It'll be cold ou—"

"That too!" Sherlock cried. Then he softened. "Goodbye," he whispered. The housekeeper gave him a quick hug and ushered him out the door where a black car was waiting. Sherlock stepped in, and then looked back out the dim window to the Holmes manor where his eighteen year-old brother was standing at the door. It just wasn't fair. Mycroft never went to boarding school!

Eventually the silhouette of the only home he had ever known disappeared, and the scenery outside Sherlock's window was painfully picturesque. The sunlight glistening on the fields of wildflowers, the reflection of the cloudless blue sky in the winding brook beside the road… it all reminded him of the country home he was leaving.

Sherlock opened the latch of his trunk and slipped a hand into the smallest pocket. He took out a photo of a woman wearing a petal pink dress. She seemed to speak to him, despite the frozen moment the image captured. _Have a good time, sweetie_, she said. _Everything will be fine_.

"Love you too, mum," Sherlock replied quietly, so that the driver couldn't hear. The driver would tell Father, who would not be pleased that his son had spoken of 'the woman.' Father had a new wife now.

"We're here," snarled Sherlock's driver, pointing through his window at a large stone building.

"Oh, great," Sherlock said to himself.

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**So, do you like it...or not? Please review below and with your answer to that question and/or give me suggestions for the next chapter. That one will be set in the present day. Thanks! -Myc**


	5. Realized

**A/N: I'm so sorry that it's been so long! I admit that I was at a complete loss for what to write next, but I present to you now... the next chapter! Set in the present day! It's quite a bit longer than usual, because I had an idea and had to keep going, and then couldn't bring myself to shorten and edit it. So here's the next chapter, in its full glory!**

**As usual, review please! Compliments are appreciated, criticisms are desperately needed (and expected)! I don't care what it is, as long as you review! :)**

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Sherlock's long, lithe fingers flurry over the violin stings, a sonata rests in the making upon his stand. It's been a weary evening of drunkenness, deductions, and dancing at the 221B Christmas party, and only now ─ at 22:18 ─ is John pacing the flat, on patrol for the last specks of Christmas pudding (which, unfortunately, will nonetheless haunt him for the remainder of the holiday season). A long whine echoes from the violin and John jumps from where he has been bending down behind a lamp.

"Jesus, Sherlock... you're going to give me a migraine."

Sherlock, pondering the seriousness of the comment, decides not to question further. Such inquisitive comments seemed to be frowned upon when conversing with The Flatmate, as a result of the 'Three Continents Watson' incident that had occurred a few months before. Sherlock blinks hard to be rid of that unpleasant memory. The silence isn't deafening, but unpleasantly loud. He breaks the void with a rough baritone murmur.

"Sorry, John."

John picks up his head and gazes at his friend, surprised.

"Oh, okay... err... you're welcome, Sherlock...?"

Sherlock begins a vigorous movement, feeling the sentiment approaching and trying to fend it off with purely left-brained material. _Accelerando... then a gradual crescendo.. and... done._ He stretches and gazes intently at the staff. _It wasn't that bad... but it needed work._

"So what are you writing that one for?" asked John, abandoning his hopeless cleaning job in favor of a warm drink and plopping himself on the sofa like a laborer after a long day's work ─ which, considering John's day of infinite cooking and cleaning for ten Christmas-party-goers ─ didn't seem too far off.

"Oh... I don't know. It's not like it's any of your business what I'm doing. But, so stubbornly, you insist on making it so. When you think I'm not watching, you stop what you're doing and listen. It's distracting, really. Why don't you just leave me alone so I can work in peace?!"

Sherlock instantly regrets his outburst, realizing the misfortune he has of a being a high-functioning sociopath: a lack of social skills. _I didn't mean that... it wasn't the right thing to do. It's just that John can't be allowed to find out about the secret. And of course, I can't spoil the surprise, after all the time I spent working on it... ugh! People are so complicated. This is why I never used to care about such things._

"Fine. Be that way. I'm going out for a pint with Greg and the rest. Don't expect me back anytime soon," John states simply. He starts to get up, slowly and with a plethora of sighing, reminiscent of the time the two first met at Bart's. He is as sad-looking and pathetic as he was then─ and two years older. Sherlock makes a split-second decision that is so unlike him his own brain is shocked to have come up with it.

"John─"

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

John turns away and heads toward the door, grabbing his hat and gloves with an imperceptible sigh. Then Sherlock stops him with two short words, then many more.

"John, wait. I'm sorry. I truly, truly am. For anything and everything I've done you wrong. And I want to make a confession, even though," (he falters) "I'm not really ready to share it with you." Sherlock gestures to the metal music stand, as tall and rigid as himself. "This, here, was meant to be your Christmas present. I know it's not much, and it's still not what I wanted it to be, but there it is. It's been awful not being able to tell you about it, and you thinking I didn't care, all these months. I never realized at first, besides that you and I were compatible, how good you are to me. I never mean all those things I say ─ the awful ones, you know, but they're so stuck into me that I couldn't stop saying them if I tried. And I do appreciate you. I do care, when I remember to. And I never did those things before, those sentimental things ─ but I know now it's all thanks to you. So I was giving you this violin piece, John Watson, because you're the one who showed me the light."

John stands in the doorway, frozen in place, his jaw dropped. There is silence for an instant as both minds process what has just happened. John takes a deep breath, dispersing the scent of fresh tea from his mouth that Sherlock can smell from meters away, and asks a quiet question.

"What were you going to call it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock responds immediately, but calm-sounding and reserved, despite his pent-up feelings making his throat seize up on its own account.

"My Soldier."

John's eyes slowly become a raging river of salty tears, filling his lids until a few strays escape to the floor.

"Sherlock," he manages. "I─"

"I'm sorry. So sorry, my John."

"I forgive you... When have I ever been able to say those words?"

John smiles weakly. There is a pause as they both look everywhere but each other. The candles Molly brought, the colorful Christmas tree lights Mrs. Hudson had provided for them, and the golden star shimmering above, scatter shadows throughout the room and provide just enough light to see by, but no more. Sherlock gazes out the window at the many Londoners carrying home packages for Christmas, all in two, or threes, or fours. _They look happy_, he thinks. _Peaceful_.

"John?" he asks.

"Yes?"

"Do you think we could be like that?" Sherlock asks, unsure. This is all new territory for him, and he knows it. _Please let me do this right_.

"The people out there?" says John. He appears by Sherlock's side suddenly, looking out the window along side him at the passersby in the street below.

"...I think so," Sherlock whispers. They turn to face one another. Sherlock waits for an answer, terrified of John, terrified of the conversation.

"Do you want to be?"

"I don't know what it's like. But with you maybe I could... but I don't know how."

John takes Sherlock's hand, holding it firmly yet tenderly.

"You're not alone, you know. All that stuff you said ─ I really appreciate it all," he says. And after a pause, John continues.

"I don't know if this is what you're trying to say, but I'll give it my best shot: I like you too."

Sherlock's mind blanks out ─ empties. He can't believe what has just been said, what John says that he feels. He is the epitome of sensory overdrive, a frenzy of relief and terror. He should be glad, he should be rejoicing. He wants to open the window latch and scream to all of London what has just been said. But he knows better and simply gazes at John, his own face wide-eyed and radiant, completely petrified with the unfamiliarity of the situation.

John faces him, and looking at each other for another moment; two inscrutable, conflicted minds forget everything they knew to be true. John and Sherlock lean up (in John's case) and down (in Sherlock's case) until their heads are in profile, angled exactly the same.

Their lips meet in a soft, uncertain kiss.


	6. Learned

**A/N: Chapter six is here! Enjoy, although there's no fluff this time. Warning: assualt/abuse. If you're not okay with that, don't read. Comments are welcome. -Myc**

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When the parties started, Sherlock used to be asleep. Not anymore. He learned on the second Friday night of term that staying in the dormitories was a death sentence.

That particular Friday, rumors spread through the student body all day long about what would happen later. Sherlock ignored them. His plan was to avoid the drunken revellers in their drunken glory, staying in his room to study, and sleep - Sherlock found that sleep was a necessity at university; it was his only chance to think in peace. He didn't bother deducing people's exact motives and plans, or embarrassing the professors, unlike grade school. If he was made to attend university against his will, why should he have to feign an interest in it?

But when his door burst open, realizing he had left it unlocked by mistake, Sherlock knew there was going to be a problem. Ten students, yelling over the sounds of a blaring speaker, caught ahold of him by the arms and dragged him into the hallway. He was stronger than they expected, winning a struggle with a few, but once the whole group surrounded him, it was impossible to escape.

They spent a few minutes shoving him around, while he insulted them one by one. As the remarks sank in, their reacted with over-the-top fury. The one named Scott yelled nonsense at him. A punch under his left eye followed, leaving Sherlock's face stinging, burning. He closed the eye - and was immediately shoved by another, a girl this time. Sherlock didn't know her name. She laughed at something he couldn't hear, a joke, maybe. Someone tore his shirt, ripping the fabric from the collar to the hem.

The group moved into a common room, Sherlock being dragged along with the group, like being caught in a riptide. Only, in that case, there was a way out, a path one could take to return to shore.

They approached a cluster of young men older than Sherlock - everyone was older than him at this place - which immediately became more tormentors. They continued the kicking and punching, until Sherlock no longer felt the blows. He tried to focus on escape, in any way possible.

Someone behind him told the others to pin him to the wall, which they did. A puddle of discarded beer soaked his feet; his shoes had been kicked off already. The bloke - calling himself James - mashed his face against Sherlock's, cutting off his air. He was yelling, _you like that don't you_? The others, laughing, jeered, repeating words that suddenly had no meaning, but Sherlock guessed they were slurs of some kind by the expressions on their faces. _No - stop, please, I don't - no-_

The next few weeks, Sherlock wanted to hide during the parties, but James always made him go. _You love me, don't you? You love me. This is what you have to do or I'll tell everyone what you did. You were such a wh-_

Sherlock tried to tell himself it wasn't true. But he started to wonder if he was remembering things wrong, and maybe he had done those things, and if he had, then he deserved whatever he got.

_-re, throwing yourself at me that night. What did you expect? You're lucky to have someone like me, love._

So he went to the parties, every time, and it was never any different.

When term ended for Christmas break, Sherlock went home by train, taking everything he cared about. It only filled half a suitcase, and he was forced to fill the space with newspaper to keep his things from rattling around.

He didn't go back.


	7. Bewildered

_Their lips meet in a soft, uncertain kiss._

A few seconds later, Sherlock's eyes are wide open. His hands roughly jerk away from John's neck and shoulders, where they had been tickled by the ends of his cropped sandy hair. He knows the way John looks, of course, having seen his flatmate a thousand times a day since they met, but only now does he realize the way John feels - the way the soft strands melt together into hair that is simultaneously rough and smooth.

Sherlock's hands are still floating in the air where he left them, so he quickly slides them into his pockets - which is a mistake because he's wearing tight black dress pants that he can barely fit into as it is. Unabashed, the fingertips emerge from the pockets and fold behind his back. He tries to glance back in front of him. Instead, he's shaking.

Empty silence. The quiet romantic backdrop of the city is gone and in its place is an awkward silence worse than any in Sherlock's recent history.

These are quick moments that leave him no time to prepare a clever exclamation - not that he could if he tried, since his mind is cataloging every sensation he has felt and - for once - not preparing witty dialogues.

He realizes that nobody has spoken.

"That was..." John starts.

Sherlock bites his lip and steps back, not looking at John. If he looks, he won't be able to look away - it isn't hard to deduce. John's voice now sends a shiver through him.

"Sherlock," breathes John. Another step back. His left foot. Maybe if he ignores his words, everything will go away, go back to normal. Sherlock's brain is overcome with pictures, and he sees them flick past him one by one as he stares at the carpet. John's eyes. The crease by his lips when he smiles. His throat, with one button below undone. The feel of his mouth...

"John, I-"

That's a mistake. He starts to speak but his voice has gone all low, and worse, he met John's gaze, which he can't escape. Sherlock tries to look anywhere but his eyes, focusing on the collar peeking out from his jumper. Quite normal. Only, upon further inspection, half of it is folded down, probably from Sherlock fumbling before their kiss, and now Sherlock can't take his eyes off it.

"What?"

"Your shirt, it's-" is all he can manage.

"Oh," says John, with a startled laugh. "Fix it for me?"

John sounds far too casual for this kind of encounter. It's setting off alarm bells in Sherlock's head. _John's always worried about some thing or another, and now he's perfectly calm? This situation is not calm. This is wrong, he knows it._

"John, no-"

_He can't, he won't, he's going to leave now, make up some excuse - Lestrade surely has a case file laying around-_

"Go ahead." It's said carefully, with proper eye contact and maybe a hint of a smile. Sherlock has to lean all the way forward to reach him, his face awfully close to John's, but he gets ahold of the rumpled fabric and straightens it out with one hand. It's on the way back that his lip bumps into the side of John's face, and before he can say a word they're kissing again, John's hand pulling Sherlock's chin down and goosebumps breaking out despite their warm mouths.

It's longer than the first time, mostly since that time was cut off entirely by shock. They broke apart practically seconds after Sherlock's mind had wrapped itself around what was happening. _As they should - it was a trial, a test, and he'll fail if he continues, because there's nothing to gain from this and everything to lose, but-_

It's also _more_ than last time. John's touch is persistent, deep, but still gentle. Sherlock can tell they're both holding back, but he can't imagine why - John's hand is pushing against his chest yet the other pulls him close by the neck - they bump noses but carefully adjust - it's better than Sherlock could have imagined, better than he's ever had-

And now that it occurs to Sherlock that this _time_ is just one of multiple _times_, he is utterly bewildered that it would ever happen again.

They're still standing up, but Sherlock's scared to stop and lose what they've got going, and he doesn't want to seem like a bad kisser who breaks it off to sit down. He's not _completely_ inexperienced, despite what Miss Irene Adler may have thought-

Suddenly an image appears in his mind and all he can see is another day. Years ago. _A body pressed up against him. Voices, jeering voices from his periphery that he can't identify. A uni t-shirt. The foul smell of spilled beer clouding his thoughts. One voice in particular, saying his name with unbearable force-_

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry-" John gasps, grabbing his arms. Sherlock blinks and refocuses, instantly feeling the absence of lips on his. He bites his lip hard, cursing himself for having that memory at the worst possible time. He needs more, more of John, and him, and _goddammit_ he is William Sherlock Scott Holmes and _nothing_ can keep him from what he wants-

Except for- except for James, it seems. It hurts to even think that name, but while it used to give him pain, now it brings back seething rage, because _what gave him the right to ruin it all_?

"Don't be, you did nothing," he begins, but it hurts to talk too, knowing the confusion that John must have and the absolute disaster he, Sherlock, has turned out to be.

John runs a hand through his hair. There's wrinkles in it, despite Sherlock's knowledge that such an appearance is impossible, wrinkles in the actual mop from where he grabbed it before. All of John seems battered, but his eyes are warm, and there's a sudden look of love in his eyes that is quickly replaced with... loving concern?

Sherlock still can't always tell with John, he's impossible to read on any given day. And today is far different from the norm.

John's startled: "_Why_? What happened? I mean, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gone so far, I don't want you to feel-"

Sherlock answers quickly: "It's not about you, get over yourself."

As usual he regrets the statement. "I... Thank you, but I'll be leaving now."

John: "_Wait."_

Clearly this won't be easy to get away from, but he can try.

"_No_."

"_Sherlock_ you're going to tell me what's going on, or whatever we just did is _never_ happening again, got it?"

A part of him says that leaving now would be best, but the rest of him remembers their desperate kiss and knows he's got to stay or he'll always wonder - and running away is what cowards do - and he is not a coward.


End file.
